


Streaks of Glacier Blue

by AZ-5 (elim_garak)



Category: Homeland
Genre: Canon Compliant, Multi, No names either, No particular spoilers, Season 8, We see what we want to see so it's up to you, other relationships implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24471298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/pseuds/AZ-5
Summary: Sometimes, between the lines, the tracery of branches above their heads in the birch forest, she paints. In colors. Some old, like fallow yellow for after Baghdad, orange and red for before Iran, green and blue for the blur that came after, various shades of purple for the madness that led to right now. Some new, like deep copper smudged over her dreams and her waking hours, like chasm of brown of what’s - maybe - to come, like glacier blue that bleeds over the space where she pushes the line just a tiny bit further, every time, streaks of steely, glacier blue.
Relationships: Carrie Mathison/Yevgeny Gromov, other relationships implied - Relationship
Comments: 20
Kudos: 35





	Streaks of Glacier Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sh_ua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sh_ua/gifts).



> Inspired by Carrie's color board from "The Vest".  
> Fallow yellow, sliver of green, and, of course, high purple.

Most of the time she counts.

Not the days, no, there’s been too many, so many they’ve all blended together, and Monday looks like a Tuesday and like Saturday, and she doesn’t even remember what any of them used to look like when it still mattered what day of the week it was.

Not hours, there’ve been so many, that lasted so long, that bled into one another so profusely she wouldn’t know where to start.

She counts the change. Not the price, no, that was never a question. The change, though, the small bills here and there, one life, two lives, her life, she counts those.

When the count gets too high, she starts over. And adds the lines. Because yes, there _are_ lines, there always _have_ been, lines she would never cross, never, but maybe move, just a little, every time, maybe re-draw a tiny bit further away.

The line must be drawn here, no further, she remembers hearing somewhere, one of those dorky movies Dad used to watch. Why, she’d think, why here, why now, why not further? Is it the right and wrong, black and white, do and don’t, or is it a number, a count, how high you can go before _this_ much becomes _too_ much? Because, in the end, this much, no more, no less, is all you can bear. And what you can bear is how far you can push that line.

Sometimes, between the lines, the tracery of branches above their heads in the birch forest, she paints. In colors. Some old, like fallow yellow for after Baghdad, orange and red for before Iran, green and blue for the blur that came after, various shades of purple for the madness that led to right now. Some new, like deep copper smudged over her dreams and her waking hours, like chasm of brown of what’s - maybe - to come, like glacier blue that bleeds over the space where she pushes the line just a tiny bit further, every time, streaks of steely, glacier blue.

They are all colors now, she thinks, rattling in the back of a truck or in the trunk of a car as she crosses another border, and another one, and one more. She’s the canvas, the white board of her life, and they are the paint, millions of shades of resolve and determination emulsified into a single, misshapen stain of remorse.

She sleeps for days, at first. He comes and goes, brings her food, sits a little. She eats, she _tries_. He watches, leaning leisurely back, arms crossed, legs, too, casual, nonchalant, like he doesn’t gulp a small smile every time she swallows a bite, like he doesn’t care. She looks better, he says, stronger, not as pale as she was those first days. She doesn’t remember the first days. She remembers the colors, pale, fallow yellow, with deep, crackling chasms of pitch black.

Xanax helps. She sleeps better now, deeper, longer, wakes up refreshed, more or less. She doesn’t do the count as often, not in patterns: three times before bed and two more once she’s under the covers; doesn’t feel like the world will end if she skips a round, on most days.

They call them briefings. She sleeps in between, in the small room she’s been given, with low ceiling and pale, offwhite walls, curled on her side, in full clothes, shoes, too. They ask and she answers, exactly what they agreed on, not that what they agreed on is much different from what actually happened, but he knows what they want, he says, what they like, what would make them trust her. So she sticks to the script, when she can.

He brought her a notepad, ruled yellow pages, and a pen. So she writes it down: what they ask, what she answers, names, places, dates, months and weeks, before and after, every border she crossed, every line; it’s all there.

It helps, writing does, settles her mind, keeps her grounded, focused, busy. She writes it all down, all that happens, every day, what she eats, the hours she sleeps, the clothes she wears, the pills she takes. The colors she sees as her days become shorter, her nights longer, her dreams lighter. It’s still shades of yellow, but as the weeks go by there’s more and more white, slivers of green, and light blue. It won’t be much longer, he says. She gives him the smallest of smiles then. There is no rush, not anymore, they both know it, she will die in this strange, ancient land, maybe not in a month or a year, but one day.

Days turn into weeks then months then years, hundreds of ruled yellow pages, names, places, dates. Her mind is a tracery once again, networks, connections, questions. Yellow replaced by orange, replaced by red, and then green, spilled into blue, until, finally, _finally,_ it’s high purple.

Does he believe she’s turned her back on her country? Would she believe had he turned his back on his? She was fair game to him once. And that’s fine. He’s fair game to her now.

She’s ok. Day in and out, great even. Happy, maybe a strong word, but she thinks she is, on most days. She smiles, laughs, often. Takes long walks, reads by the fireplace wrapped in her favorite throw blanket. She’s become soft, the way she moves, talks, touches, like some of her rougher edges were filed, polished away, by time, by him, by them together.

She dreams. Deep in the woods, old sturdy cabin, thick, smokey scent, small pier, still mirror of water, boundless reaches of sky, air so crisp, so light she thinks if she takes a lungful she’ll fly, fly away. Not what used to be, not what could have or should have been, either. Just a dream, of another life, another time.

It’s high purple.

Been for some time now, as she rebuilt some of her old networks, recruited new assets, threw herself into work.

But not in her dreams.

In her dreams, it's always high copper.

Silky and soft.

Deep, shimmering auburn.

With streaks of steely, glacier blue.

**Author's Note:**

> To sh_ua, you kind, beautiful soul, my gift to you. You wanted a season 8 fic. And, I figured, if you look closer, maybe you'll see a smaller gift, between the lines, just for you.


End file.
